Chapter 3

I tried to speak, but something felt stuck in my throat. I could not get a single word out.

Just then, a loud voice came from inside. It was a middle-aged woman. "Madison, who is it? Let them in. Don't just stand there."

Madison flinched. She turned her head and called back, "Okay. It's the..."

Then she turned to me. Her lips moved.

And I heard the most heartbreaking words of my life. "It's the maid I hired from back home."

I stood there, right at the door. My feet felt nailed to the floor. I could not move.

Madison saw that I was not stepping inside. She reached out, grabbed my arm, and pulled me gently. "Mom, just come in. Don't let anyone find out," she whispered.

She called me Mom, but her voice was so soft. She was afraid someone might hear.

I let her pull me inside, my head spinning.

The moment I stepped into the living room, everyone turned to look at me.

Two large round tables had been pushed together. More than a dozen people sat around them. The tables were covered with food and empty bottles.

At the head of the table sat Carly. In front of her was a three-layer cream cake.

She looked me up and down, her eyes stopping on the insulated box in my hands.

"And this is?" she asked.

Madison answered before I could, "She's a maid from my hometown. I hired her to help out. You said you were short on help today, right?"

"Oh," Carly said slowly. She nodded, and I could see her relax. "Good. There are still dishes in the kitchen, and some food needs to be arranged. Tell her to get started."

She did not even look me in the eye when she said it.

My fingers tightened around the box until they turned white.

Madison grabbed an apron from a hook near the shoe cabinet and pressed it into my hands. "Go to the kitchen and help. I'll come get you when you're done."

She did not call me Mom this time.

I lowered my head and walked past all those unfamiliar faces.

No one greeted me. No one asked who I was.

To them, I was just the hired help.

In the kitchen, three or four sinks were already filled with dirty pots and pans. I set my insulated box in a corner, tied on the apron, and quietly started washing.

The water was ice-cold. My hands turned red almost right away.

But I did not feel much. The pain in my chest was worse than anything in my hands.

After I finished the dishes, I cut fruit, arranged the plates of food, and reheated the soup.

From the living room, I could hear loud cheers, glasses clinking, and waves of laughter.

I picked up a plate of freshly cut fruit and walked toward the kitchen door, planning to bring it out.

When I reached the doorway, I saw a middle-aged woman in a classic dress lean toward Madison with a smile. "Madison, why isn't your mother here on a big day like this?"

My hand stopped in midair.

Madison held her wine glass. Her smile did not change at all. "Jane, my mother passed away a long time ago. My uncle raised me."

I heard every word clearly.

With just a few sentences, she erased all fifty-eight years of my life.

The plate in my hands suddenly felt too heavy to hold.

Jane gasped and gently patted Madison's shoulder. "You poor thing. No wonder you're so sensible and independent."

Madison lowered her head slightly, putting on a look that made people feel sorry for her.

I stood in the kitchen doorway, watching her.

We were only a few steps apart. But she never once looked at me.

I turned around and set the fruit plate back on the counter. My hands were shaking so badly that I could barely control them.

I turned on the faucet. The cold water ran over my hands, and it was the only thing that kept me from breaking down.

I could not cry. If I cried, there would be no way to explain it.

I took a deep breath and went back to work.

That afternoon, I washed dishes four separate times. I mopped the floor twice. I helped clean the entire kitchen until it was spotless.

Madison came into the kitchen twice.

The first time, she came in to grab a drink. As she passed by, she said softly, "Mom, thank you for your hard work. It'll be over soon."

The second time, she came in carrying a stack of plates covered in leftover bones. She set them down on the counter. "Please take care of these."

She did not call me Mom that time. Her husband, Teddy, stood beside her, holding an empty wine bottle.

Her tone sounded so natural and practiced. It made me think she had done this many times before.

And maybe she had.